


only human, after all

by WeeBeastie



Series: after all verse [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Reunion Fic, alternate universe because fuck Treasure Island, mentions of sad things like death and divorce, old pirate husbands, this one kinda got away from me guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 19:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10646400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: maybe i'm foolish, maybe i'm blindthinking i can see through this and see what's behindgot no way to prove it, so maybe i'm blindbut i'm only human after all





	only human, after all

**Author's Note:**

> A far in the future (20+ years after the events of Black Sails) AU type piece where someone shows up on someone else’s doorstep. I couldn’t get the image out of my head so here it is. It’s probably kind of angsty and more sad than I intended it to be at the beginning, sorry! I refer to Flint that way throughout the fic, but I think he went back to calling himself McGraw, just in case anyone is wondering.
> 
> Title taken from the song “Human” by Rag n Bone Man, it is excellent and you should totally go listen to it. Speaking of music, none of the little snippets of songs Silver sings belong to me. My Silver likes to amuse himself by singing, and not all the songs are historically accurate but whatever, he does what he wants.
> 
> I’ve done what I can re: historical accuracy for the time and place; I think I did pretty well but do forgive me for any small errors.
> 
> Rated E for eventual sexy times, but it is a bit of a slow burn, I’m warning y'all right now.
> 
> This turned into a big thing that I didn’t really plan for, but oh well. I’m pretty sure it’s the longest fic I’ve written in…ever. These two completely took it over from me and I ended up writing something even I didn’t really expect.
> 
> Here we go!

Flint is sitting in his parlor on his small farm in Louisiane territory, silently re-reading one of his favorites and drinking his nightly cup of rum when he hears a knock on the front door. He frowns, marks his place in the book, and rises to his feet with a quiet groan. He isn't expecting anyone; it's late and full dark, certainly not an hour when anyone should rightly be visiting.

When he opens the door, he recognizes the man’s eyes before anything else. Blue and mischievous, still, though shadowed and surrounded now by more wrinkles than Flint remembers. This man is missing his left leg, and leans heavily on his crutch. He has long dark curling hair pulled partway back, with elegant streaks of silver shot through and a patch of silver in the center of his full, dark beard. A stud earring glints in one ear, mirroring the one Flint still has in his own.

“Hello, James,” the man says, smiling. As soon as Flint hears his voice he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he is looking at John Silver.

“John,” Flint says, swallowing past the sudden tightness in his throat and stepping back to let Silver into his home. “Please come in,” he says belatedly as Silver makes his way slowly into the front room. Flint closes the door behind him and for a long moment they regard each other. Flint finds himself feeling a little lightheaded.

“Your hair’s gone white,” Silver says, keen eyes taking Flint in. “Pity, I thought it might still be red. But at least you've grown it out again, the shaved look didn't suit you,” he says, leaning on his crutch with his arms folded. It's such a familiar pose it makes Flint shiver. He feels like he's in the presence of a ghost.

“You look...” Flint begins, then just stares at Silver, trying to reconcile this person with the one he knew so many years ago. This person moves nimbly but stiffly, and has so many more scars, including a wicked one through his left eyebrow that narrowly skirts his eye. He has tattoos peeking out of the sleeves of his coat, and more leading down from his neck to disappear into his shirt. He's also missing more of his leg than he was before, Flint realizes with a start.

“Old and tired, I know,” Silver says as he and Flint make their way to the parlor. “I am both, so I suppose it follows,” he says jovially as he settles himself on Flint’s couch, his dark clothing and weathered appearance incongruous against the couch’s elegant floral pattern.

“I was going to say dignified,” Flint says as he hands Silver a cup of rum before settling in an armchair across from him. “Age suits you. You look less like the baby-faced little shit you were when I first met you. In a good way.”

Silver just laughs and shakes his head. “You’re lying, but thank you,” he says. When he laughs Flint thinks he can see the glint of a gold tooth far back in his mouth. That wasn't there before, but it suits him too. Silver takes a drink before looking up at Flint, an uncertain expression playing across his still handsome face. “Is...is he here?” he asks, and Flint knows by his tone who he's referring to, no name necessary.

“He passed away about four years ago, now,” Flint says, feeling an ache deep in his chest at having to say those words. He had many good years with Thomas, for which he cannot thank the man in front of him enough, but the pain of being without him again will likely never completely disappear. It never seems to get much easier to talk about his loss, either.

“I'm so sorry,” Silver says, genuine sympathy and grief on his face. “I didn't know,” he says, free hand rising to his mouth. He chews on his thumbnail sometimes when he's uncomfortable, Flint suddenly remembers.

“We had a better life together than I ever could've dreamed for us,” Flint says quietly, reminiscing. “I wanted to write you when he...but I hadn't the faintest clue where to address a letter,” he says honestly. He and Silver haven't seen each other or had any contact whatsoever in at least twenty years, he realizes. They corresponded a few times shortly after Flint settled in Savannah with Thomas and Silver married Madi, but it's been years since then. To Flint it feels like a lifetime.

“I've been roving quite a bit, it would've been hard to find me to get a letter to me,” Silver allows, dropping his hand from his mouth and leaning back into the couch. Just how much more of Silver’s leg is gone is more evident now, startling. He hasn't got much left past his hip.

“Where’s Madi?” Flint asks. He has imagined, many times, the kind of life Silver would lead with her - them with a passel of beautiful wild-haired children, calling Silver ‘papa’ and snuggling between him and Madi at night, content and safe. Flint has always pictured Silver alive, lively and happy, for his own sake as much as anything else.

Silver doesn't answer for a moment, a deep frown appearing between his eyebrows. “You were right,” he begins, carefully. “You told me that life wouldn't be enough, and fuck you, you were right,” he says, chuckling without any real mirth. “I _tried_ , James. I wanted so badly to be the husband she deserved,” he says, a faraway look in his eyes. “But the way our marriage started, with her still so angry at me for betraying her...I told myself that was something we could get past, her and I, that we were young and we'd both experienced too much loss to let something like that get in the way of being happy together. I don't want to speak ill of her, it's completely my fault that things didn't work,” he says, and takes a long drink of rum before speaking again. “We had several good years, her and I. Then a spate of bad ones, where I was gone more than I was home. I went away yet again and when I came back, she told me in no uncertain terms that this was not the way she'd pictured life with me, and she was leaving.” His shoulders sag. “I loved her so fiercely, and I thought...I thought loving someone as good as her would be enough to better me. Shape me into the person she believed I could be, the man she wanted to be married to. But it wasn't. I wasn't. I'm...not.”

Flint looks at him, feeling heartache for his old partner and a soft kind of regret for the life he'd always imagined Silver leading. “I’m sorry it happened that way. I always thought...” He trails off, shaking his head. “Do you have children?” he asks, almost hopeful.

“No,” Silver says with a great sigh, shifting in an effort to get himself more comfortable on Flint’s couch. His answer makes Flint feel more sadness than he would've thought. “That was a bone of contention between Madi and myself, to be frank. She wanted them, I-- I didn't.”

“I thought you loved babies,” Flint says with a hint of a smile, remembering a drunken conversation between the two of them long ago, just after Silver met Madi.

Silver smiles back, apparently remembering the same. “Oh, I did. I still do, they're lovely, all dimpled hands and sweet-smelling hair,” he says, his eyes shining, wistful. “But I got scared. I couldn't picture myself as a good father, and if I couldn't be a good one, I didn't want to be one at all.” He finishes his rum and sets the empty cup on Flint’s end table, folding his hands in his lap. “Besides, fatherhood is not generally something that men in my familial line tend to excel at,” he says softly, and Flint nods, understanding.

“So, what brings you here?” Flint asks after a moment, not bothering to ask how Silver found him on his little farm in the Louisiane area because John Silver is nothing if not a wily pain in the arse. That hasn't changed, whatever else has. He has his methods, Flint knows. “It can't be just because you felt like sitting on an uncomfortable floral couch and drinking my rum,” he teases gently.

Silver laughs and shakes his head. “No,” he agrees, and grabs for his crutch, getting up and starting to pace in front of Flint. Flint is struck by how Silver moves - he's stiff with age and old injuries, but he walks no more loudly or awkwardly than any man on two legs. He's graceful, in his way. “I came here to say something to you that I rightly should have said long ago,” Silver says, pausing in his pacing and looking directly at Flint. Having the full weight of Silver’s gaze on him makes the hairs on Flint’s arms stand up.

“You loved me,” Flint says simply, and watches as Silver’s expression shifts from surprise, to irritation, to amusement, before finally settling on steely determination. 

Silver folds his arms on his crutch and takes a deep breath through his nose, grinding his teeth almost audibly together. It's clear to Flint that he's struggling with something. “I _love_ you,” he finally corrects Flint. “Present tense.”

Now Flint is the one looking surprised. Shocked, actually. “Present tense,” he repeats, rising from his chair and approaching Silver. His heart has started hammering wildly in his chest. He doesn't know what to make of that.

“Yes,” Silver murmurs, his eyes roaming over Flint’s face, taking in the white hair and beard, the laugh lines in the corners of his eyes, the ever-present freckles.

“And what exactly do you expect me to do with that information?” Flint asks, hearing his own pulse thundering in his ears as he and Silver look into each other’s eyes. He finds quite surprisingly that he really doesn't know what to do with that information. He had guessed Silver had some sort of feelings toward him long ago, but having the man in front of him and hearing that he still feels strongly that way after so long apart is making Flint feel like everything in his life is suddenly upside down.

“Well-- I hadn't really thought about how you might react,” Silver says, and it's just as easy for Flint to tell that he's lying as it has ever been. Clearly, Silver has rehearsed this scenario in his head dozens of times. For how long, Flint wonders. “But I thought perhaps I could stay here for the night, and then we’ll see.” He manages an awkward, self-conscious shuffle with his crutch and one good leg, looking away from Flint.

“Of course you can stay. It's probably for the best if we both turn in now, it's late and I'm not a young man anymore. And neither are you,” Flint says. More than anything he wants to get some sleep before they continue having this conversation. Flint can feel something between them, a curious tension that he knows has always been there, but is now making itself extremely known.

Silver grabs Flint’s wrist in a flash and pulls him toward himself, almost pulling him off his feet. Silver may act like an old man slowed by age and injury, but Flint realizes this is yet another of his chameleon-like behaviors. Silver is just as strong and fast as he's ever been underneath it all, perhaps even more so now after years of whatever it is he's been up to. Silver regards Flint up close and they breathe the same air for a long moment. “Goodnight, then,” Silver eventually says and lets go of Flint, nimbly moving a few paces back.

“I’ll show you to the guest room,” Flint says for lack of anything better to say, turning to lead Silver out of the parlor and to the room he'll be staying in. He pauses at the foot of the winding staircase, glancing questioningly at Silver.

“Do you really think that after half my life this way, I can't manage stairs? Go on then, James, tell me another one,” Silver jokes, a slight edge to his voice, and Flint turns back around to lead him upstairs. 

He shows him to the dusty, unused guest room. When Thomas was alive they entertained guests fairly frequently, but in the years since his death Flint has become more withdrawn and less likely to invite anyone into the home. He can practically feel Thomas’s disappointment in him for not keeping the room up, now that he sees the state it's in. Peeling wallpaper, dust bunnies beneath the bed - it’s atrocious.

“I was going to tell you where you can put your things, but I've just now realized you don't appear to have brought anything with you,” Flint says, looking Silver up and down.

“I don't own much,” Silver says, shrugging easily. “Besides, I might only be staying for tonight,” he says, attempting to sound casual.

“Right,” Flint says, and knows down to his bones that neither of them believes that. “Well, I'll see you sometime in the morning, then. I don't get up early.”

“I know,” Silver says, and they both look at each other again for a long moment. “Neither do I. I'll see you. Thank you for letting me stay,” he says, sitting heavily on the bed as Flint lights a candle on the nightstand for him. A cloud of dust rises when Silver sits down.

“You’re welcome,” Flint says. He retreats to the doorway and takes in the scene, marveling at the sight of Silver, still somehow himself after all this time and distance. He looks entirely out of place in the tastefully appointed guest room, but the incongruity of Silver and the room makes Flint feel strangely giddy. “Goodnight, John. Sleep well,” he says, then turns and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him.

As he readies himself for bed, Flint wonders if in the morning Silver will be gone and it all will have turned out to be a strange and confounding dream.

 

\---

 

Flint sleeps in even later than usual the next morning, his dreams strange and haunted. When he wakes, he quickly gets dressed and goes down the hall to the guest room to check on Silver. He finds it empty and has just managed to convince himself that the previous night’s events were a surprisingly vivid dream caused by too much rum when he hears noise downstairs. Someone is singing. Singing a bawdy old sea shanty in a rich, deep voice, colored by years of smoking tobacco.

Flint follows the singing to the modest farmhouse kitchen and finds Silver, graying hair pulled into a knot at the back of his head, fixing tea for himself and Flint.

“Ah good, you're up,” Silver says as Flint sits down at the table, still feeling a bit off-kilter from having Silver in his home after so long. Silver brings Flint a cup of tea and sets it down in front of him.

“You remembered,” Flint says, staring dumbly down at his tea. It's got just a splash of milk in it and - he realizes when he takes a sip - a very small amount of sugar. He's always been particular about his tea.

“Of course I did,” Silver says, sounding almost offended that Flint would assume he might forget such a thing. Silver’s tea is the same as always, dark and strong, no milk or sugar. It makes Flint shudder when he sees it as Silver takes a seat across the table from him.

“We ought to talk about why you're here,” Flint begins warily, looking away from Silver so he doesn't get distracted by how his namesake hair gleams in the late morning sun. His feelings toward the man in front of him are-- conflicted, to put it mildly.

“We ought to, yes, but I can tell by that twitch in your face that you'd rather not,” Silver says. “So let's not. Yet,” he says, smiling dangerously from behind his delicate teacup, which looks a bit ridiculous in his large, rough hands. In daylight it's even more obvious that Silver has spent years at sea. His skin is deeply tanned, wrinkled and damaged here and there. He must be sixty or close to it, Flint realizes. He doesn't want to think about how old that makes him, personally.

“Did I see a gold tooth in your mouth last night, or was that my imagination?” Flint asks, both curious and desperately casting about for a more neutral topic of conversation. Silver has given him a reprieve from their much-needed discussion for now, but he knows it has to happen eventually.

“No, that's really in there,” Silver says, and contorts his face into an ugly grimace for a moment so Flint can see the gleam of the tooth again, near the back of his mouth. “Lost the real one in a bar brawl and was too vain to just go round toothless.”

“Between that, the earring, and all the tattoos, you have certainly embraced the swashbuckling aesthetic,” Flint observes wryly, taking another sip of his perfect tea.

“That’s rich coming from the small-town farmer in the Louisiane territory who still wears an earring himself and has got a cutlass hanging on the wall of his fancy parlor,” Silver shoots back, mouth twitching like he's trying not to grin.

“Touché,” Flint says, and he thinks he sees Silver shiver a little at the sound of the French word in Flint’s mouth. Odd. “I didn't hear you come downstairs earlier.”

“I didn't want to wake you,” Silver says, drinking his strong, bitter tea. Flint had almost forgotten Silver drinks his tea that way, and how hard it is to watch.

“I don't mean to patronize you, but I'm impressed. I would've thought a one-legged man climbing down a spiral staircase would make a fair bit of noise,” Flint says, looking into Silver’s eyes again. “Thank you for making the tea, too.”

Silver just smiles. “I woke earlier than you and decided to make myself useful. I might as well pitch in if I want to be a good houseguest.”

“By which you mean you rifled through everything interesting that you could find, then got bored and decided you'd make tea.”

“Yes,” Silver confirms readily. “Your taste in art leaves something to be desired, but as always your collection of literature is impressive. Anyway, what say I make us some breakfast, hm? I assume you have...farmer things to do but I'd like to cook for you first.”

Flint’s face must do something strange, because the next thing he knows Silver is up and indignantly thumping around the kitchen. He can be loud when he's feeling petulant, Flint recalls now.

“Don't look at me that way, I'm not going to poison you! That was _one_ time, practically thirty years ago, and I'm a much better cook now,” Silver grumbles as he rummages around the kitchen to make them breakfast. “One of the crews I was on even took to calling me Barbecue, they liked my cooking so. Fucking stupid nickname but they meant well.”

Silver makes breakfast for the two of them, and to his credit it's delicious (and not poison). Afterward Flint heads outside to catch up on his chores, leaving Silver alone in the house to occupy himself. 

Flint returns inside an hour or two later for a cup of water and a reprieve from the midday heat, and is taken aback when he sees Silver sitting at the table with a baby of about eight months in his lap. He's singing to her, bouncing her on his one remaining knee. 

“Shiver my timbers, shiver my bones - yo ho, heave ho!” Here he bounces her higher than before, and she giggles like mad. “There are secrets that sleep with old Davy Jones - yo ho, heave ho!”

“Where the fuck did you get that?” Flint asks. Silver may look every part the thieving pirate, but surely even he wouldn't steal a _baby_.

“You shouldn't swear in front of her,” Silver says, glancing sideways at Flint. “Unless you want her first word to be ‘fuck.’ And I got her from her mother, your neighbor. Lovely woman, doesn't speak much English but I managed to understand that Marie here is teething and her mother is desperate for something to rub on her gums but has nothing in the house. I directed her to the rum in your parlor, and offered to take Marie for a moment so she can hear herself think,” he explains at length. “Did you know this is her sixth child, James? Six children, and she's young yet. No wonder the poor woman is half-mad.”

“She'd have to be, to fob her baby off on a stranger who looks like you do,” Flint mutters. Silver just laughs, and Flint goes off in search of the baby’s mother. He finds her with the bottle of rum, taking a surreptitious sip of it herself before turning around to go back to the kitchen and retrieve Marie.

“Oh! I'm sorry,” the woman - Antoinette, Flint thinks - says to him in the French dialect that's particular to their area of the territory. “It's just, the baby was crying and she wouldn't stop, and I know we haven't seen much of each other lately but you've always been so kind to us,” she says in a rush, going with Flint to the kitchen and looking fondly at Silver and Marie. “Your cousin is very good with her.”

“My-- ah, yes. He's always been good with babies,” Flint responds in the same French dialect. “I'm sure he'd be happy to look after Marie whenever you'd like a reprieve,” Flint says, taking the baby carefully from Silver and depositing her in her mother’s arms.

“Thank you again, Mr. McGraw, Mr. Vane,” she says, then sweeps out of the house in a flurry of activity. Distantly, Flint can hear that Marie has started wailing again.

“Vane?” Flint asks incredulously, rounding on Silver. “And my cousin, of all things? We look nothing alike.”

“It was the first name I could think of, and cousins don't have to look alike. What was I going to tell her, the truth?” he asks, heaving himself up on his crutch and approaching Flint, eyeing him in a way that has always made Flint a little nervous. “You were speaking French just now,” Silver says.

“I was,” Flint allows, wondering where this is going.

“I didn't know you could speak French,” Silver says, leaning on his crutch and using one hand to push a loose strand of his hair back from his face. He looks a little flushed. Flint wonders if the oppressive afternoon heat is getting to him.

“I can't really, just the dialect that's used most around here,” Flint says. Silver is leaning in closer than he was before, and something dangerous is glittering in his eyes. “Why are you suddenly so interested in my linguistic capabilities?”

“I...that's not important,” Silver says, and yes, he is most definitely flushed. He's gone a deep red underneath his tan and his beard, and he seems to be breathing a bit faster, too. Maybe he's got heat stroke.

“Are you all right?” Flint asks. “Let me draw you a cool bath, you look overheated.”

“Yes. Thank you. Overheated, that's it,” Silver says, backing away from Flint more speedily than he would've thought possible and sitting down at the table again.

Flint goes off to prepare the bath, wondering what all that was about. He comes back to Silver once it's ready and waiting for him in the bathroom upstairs. “I've put out some clean clothes for you, too. Some of mine,” he tells him.

“Thank you. I am a bit grubby from traveling for so long, I almost felt bad lying down in those fancy sheets of yours last night,” Silver says, heaving himself up with his crutch. 

“I'll leave you to it, then,” Flint says, and Silver brushes past him to go upstairs and avail himself of the bath. Flint thinks this is one of the stranger conversations they've ever had, which is saying quite a lot. He gets himself the drink of water he originally came in for, then returns outside.

When he comes inside again near dusk, he finds Silver on an overstuffed chaise in a small sitting room downstairs, one of Flint’s books in his hands. He looks freshly scrubbed and his silver-streaked hair is curling damply on his shoulders. He's wearing the clothes that Flint put out for him to borrow, and they almost fit - Silver’s waist is still narrower than Flint’s, even though they've both gone a little soft around the middle with age. The sleeves on the shirt are a bit too long, because Flint is still taller than Silver and his arms longer. By contrast, Silver’s shoulders are much broader than they used to be, and his arms and chest thicker, perhaps owing to so many years on the crutch. The borrowed shirt is straining a little across the front, which Flint resolutely does not notice. Silver has pinned up the empty left leg of the trousers so it won't bother him.

“Did you enjoy yourself, then?” Flint asks, sitting wearily across from Silver in an armchair.

“What?” Silver asks, snapping the book shut abruptly and looking like a child who's been caught stealing sweets. “Oh. Ah. You meant-- yes, thank you,” he says, and his ears have gone a bit pink where they're poking out from his wet hair.

Flint eyes him, wondering if he might still be feeling feverish. “Good.” He rubs his palms on his thighs and sighs quietly, steeling himself. “We really should talk about the reason you gave for coming here after so long,” he says, steadily meeting Silver’s gaze.

Silver sets the book down next to him and nods. “Yes, I suppose we should,” he agrees. He adjusts his position on the chaise, looking like he can't quite get comfortable.

Flint wants to ask what happened to him that resulted in the loss of so much more of his leg, but he refrains for the moment. “You said you came here to tell me that you love me,” he says, feeling his heart speed up a little when he recalls Silver saying those words. He ignores it. “You also said you didn't know Thomas had passed. So what exactly were you imagining would happen here?” he asks, giving Silver the no-nonsense look that he always used to use when he was determined to get the truth from him. He's out of practice with it, but it works.

“I saw it happening one of three ways,” Silver says, looking down at his lap before looking back up at Flint. “First and most likely, you're angry with me - understandably so - as is Thomas. One or both of you orders me to get out of your house, and I leave like a thief in the night, never to contact you again,” he says with a sad little smile. “Second and somewhat less likely, you're receptive but Thomas is angry. I let you two work it out between yourselves, and either I stay or I go, depending.” He tugs at the front of the borrowed shirt, feeling the strain where it doesn't really fit him. “Third and least likely of all, you're both receptive and somehow, some way, we make a life for ourselves together, all three of us,” he says. 

“So you came here feeling reasonably sure that one way or another, you'd be told to leave,” Flint says quietly. 

“Yes,” Silver says. He tugs the shirt again, then goes still, visibly waiting on Flint to say something - anything.

“Why?” Flint finally says, because that's the only thing that comes to mind. “You love me. You came here to tell me so, feeling almost certain you'd be rejected. Why do that to yourself?” he asks, gently.

Silver takes a deep breath before he continues, and something in his face reminds Flint so much of who he was when they last saw each other, it's startling. “I have spent my life being no one, from nowhere. No family to speak of, no real ties to anyone until I met you. When I first...found myself feeling things toward you, I ignored them, then did my best to justify them. It wasn't that I was in love with you, I was sure, it was that I wanted to be you. That I wanted to have what you had, I wanted to be someone and know who I was. I even admitted to myself - quite readily - that I was attracted to you. But I could admit nothing more, not even to myself.” He looks at Flint, then looks away. “When I could finally name what I was really feeling, it was far too late. I thought fleetingly of saying something to you in those few letters we sent back and forth, years ago, but I couldn't do that to you and Thomas.

“I saw you out the window of that carriage in Savannah, you were so-- I'd never seen you so fervently happy, James, it was beautiful,” he says, and clears his throat to get past the lump in it. “Besides, of course, I had Madi. I loved her, I still do. She didn't deserve to have a husband who was pining away for someone else while loving her, I can see now. And she knew what I felt, even though I never said the words to her. After she left me, some years ago now, she sent me a letter encouraging me to find you. She's always been so much smarter than me.” He clears his throat again. “I suppose I thought that with time and distance my...feelings toward you, my attraction or infatuation or whatever I was telling myself it was, would fade away. I took to the sea not long after you and I parted ways, because I told myself the ache of longing I felt was for the waves, the salt, the sun on my back. It was not. I still hate the sea,” he says with a rueful smile, his eyes gone pink-rimmed and watery. “I came here to tell you all this in person because I may yet be no one from nowhere, but I'm not a fucking coward. Not anymore. Before it got to be too late, before one of us-- I had to tell you. Face to face.”

Flint sits back, reeling from all Silver has told him. “How long?” he asks, his voice hoarse with held-back emotion.

“How long have I...? Well. It wasn't love at first sight, I'll say that,” Silver says with a nervous bark of laughter. “I don't rightly know, James. It didn't hit me all at once like a tidal wave. It was slow, and it unfolded so quietly I almost couldn't hear it happening inside myself. By the time I found Thomas I knew I felt more than just attraction toward you, but like I said, I couldn't do that to you. It was a miracle that he was still alive and well and that I'd found him; I couldn't tell you my feelings and then tell you about him and - what, ask you to make a choice? That's horrifying, and besides, I had my own plans in motion by then, my own life I wanted to lead,” Silver says, shaking his head. “And above all, you're his...truest love. What am I compared to that? Even if I could've worked up the nerve to tell you years ago, I couldn't help thinking I wouldn't be good enough for you. You'd never return my feelings, and I wouldn't blame you,” he murmurs.

Flint steeples his fingers under his chin and regards Silver over them. “You love me, and you still love Madi, despite how things ended with her. So you accept that it is possible - given your own experience - to deeply, passionately, devotedly love more than one person at a time, perhaps in different ways but with no less ardor,” he says slowly.

“Yes,” Silver says, eyeing Flint curiously. 

“But you never entertained the thought that I might love you, too?” Flint asks, looking into Silver’s eyes, a look on his face like he can't quite believe they've finally arrived at this point.

Silver reels back, shocked, then abruptly pushes himself up with his crutch, looming over Flint. “You never said,” he says, sounding angry and confused. “Why didn't you ever say anything?” he gasps, looking off-balance, like the earth has suddenly and dramatically shifted under him.

Flint stands, reaching out to steady Silver with a hand on his arm. “For all the same reasons you never told me,” he says quietly, his sea-green eyes meeting Silver’s wide, searching blue ones. “At first I thought, he's young and he's got so much ahead of him, I can't act on my feelings and risk him devoting himself to me to his own detriment. I could tell that you-- had at least a fleeting attraction toward me then, but of course I couldn't have guessed it would deepen and endure the way it has. I didn't want to take advantage of you, and I knew that once I had you I'd want to...keep you, so to speak. Then you met Madi, and I was happy for you, but sad for myself because it seemed I'd missed any chance I might've had. But I wasn't going to ruin what you two had just for my own selfish reasons. You deserved to be happy, you still do,” he says. “Then when it all blew up in my face, when you told me you'd found Thomas and you brought us together, I was so angry with you at first for how it happened and for what you did...then I was overwhelmed and beyond happy, and I didn't know what to do about you.

“It seemed easiest to do nothing, move forward, and hope my feelings for you would fade. They haven't, and having you here, now, in my home has caused everything to come back to the surface.” He exhales, feeling worn out. “Before you ask, I never explicitly told Thomas the lingering feelings I have for you, but I know he knew just the same,” Flint says with a sad smile, remembering. “He never pressed me on the matter, though he did bring you up many times to me, especially early on, when he could tell how much I missed you. He wasn't the jealous type, and he knew how happy I was to be with him. How much I loved him. But he also knew I felt things for you that I just...didn't face. In fact, he knew better than anyone how easy it is to find yourself ferociously in love with two people at once. I wish you could've met, he would've liked you.”

“What, me?” Silver snorts, shaking his head. “No, I don't think so. It's not like we had much in common beyond loving you. He was high-born, well educated, he didn't have tattoos or a missing leg or a fucking gold tooth--”

“I don't know where you've gotten the idea that Thomas was some poncy foppish lord, but that ends here,” Flint interrupts, trying not to be amused by Silver’s self-deprecating tirade. “He was smart and passionate. He argued, fiercely, for the people and things he believed in. He was a pain in my arse, sometimes. He wasn't perfect, but I loved him, and I always will.” Flint clears his throat. “It would seem I have a type,” he mutters to himself.

Silver stands regarding Flint for a long moment. “So what I gather from our conversation here is that I love you, and have loved you for ages. You in turn love me, and have also loved me for ages. But neither of us breathed a word of anything to the other until now, because we were afraid of ruining each other’s lives, or futures, at least. Which in retrospect probably wouldn't have happened given that Madi and Thomas kept encouraging us to seek each other out in their own ways, even knowing what they clearly knew. What we couldn't say, not even to them. Instead you thought of me often and wondered what could've been, while I made myself and my wife so miserable she couldn't stand me anymore and left, and slowly but surely I became the villain I hoped I'd never be. I became Long John Silver, truly,” he says, regret plain on his face. “Now we're both old men, and only just now have we worked up the courage to say anything to each other. After all this time.”

“That would seem to be the gist of it, yes,” Flint agrees, feeling the heat of Silver’s skin under his palm through the borrowed shirt.

“How can two such clever men be so fucking stupid?” Silver asks incredulously. 

His question surprises a laugh out of Flint. “I don't know,” he says, shaking his head.

Silver sighs, his shoulders sagging a little. “So this begs the question, what on earth should we do now that we're here alone and we've finally bared our souls to one another?” he asks, shifting his weight from crutch to leg and back again. He looks Flint subtly up and down, then blushes faintly pink and looks quickly away.

Flint eyes him, thinking suddenly that there are things they could do that they've both apparently wanted to do for a long time. He flushes a bit at that particular train of thought, images coming to his mind unbidden of himself and Silver in all kinds of enjoyable situations.

As usual Silver seems to read his mind. He grasps the back of Flint’s shirt in one hand and tugs him in close, gently, eyes gone half-lidded. “It’s like that, is it?” he rumbles, looking up at Flint through his eyelashes. “You and I alone, admitting to having wanted each other for so long...it puts you in a mood, doesn't it.” It's not a question.

Flint finds himself pressing up against Silver, feeling every hot, hard inch of him. “We probably shouldn't,” he rasps, although he's never been one to make rational decisions when the object of his desire is coming on to him so blatantly. “It seems a bit soon. We haven't seen each other in years, and we've only just had an important talk that was a long time coming,” he says, his gaze flicking down between their bodies and back up again. Silver’s upper body is so thick with muscle, it's...distracting.

“You're right, of course. It would be better to get to know each other again before you fuck me so hard I can't walk right for days,” Silver all but purrs in his ear. “Before I take your cock down my throat and make you come so hard you see stars. Before I make you shout so loud, with such ecstasy, that your lovely neighbor will know that I am most assuredly not your cousin.” Even Silver himself looks a bit shocked at the utterly filthy things he's just said, like he didn't expect those words to come out of his own mouth.

Flint hisses quietly, imagining everything, and his hand travels from Silver’s arm up to his neck, fingers tangling roughly in his damp hair. “You still talk too fucking much,” he whispers.

“You like it, I can feel that you do,” Silver says, rutting up against Flint with a soft, surprised moan. “But I'll point out there are plenty of pleasurable ways to shut me up if--”

Flint kisses him with such force that their teeth click together. He pulls back after a long moment, breathing hard. Their very first kiss - passionate, with an edge of violence. It's fitting. “Not yet,” he says, tracing one thumb over Silver’s lower lip. “But soon.” He forces himself to turn away, walking stiffly toward the kitchen to find something for supper. Suddenly he's starving.

Silver’s frustrated groan echoes after him down the hall.

 

\---

 

Over the following weeks, things continue at a moderate pace for Flint and Silver. Flint takes care of his small farm and occasionally involves Silver in some of the less arduous tasks. Silver takes over all the cooking for both of them, which Flint is more than happy to let him do now that he knows Silver won't accidentally kill him with improperly cooked pig.

Still, they retire to separate rooms at night and sleep in separate beds. Flint occasionally catches Silver watching him out of the corner of his eye, lost in thought. When he realizes Flint has caught him staring, he has a tendency to give Flint a wolfish grin that stokes the fire burning low in the pit of Flint’s belly. 

Flint almost expects Silver to pester him, to purr delightfully filthy things in his ear like before - to give Flint a reason to give into him. But Silver is, maddeningly, a gentleman. He puts no pressure on Flint at all and never so much as broaches the subject with him. He just stares, and grins, and finds subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways to show off for Flint, like removing his shirt when they're working outside together, or dramatically pulling the tie from his hair so it cascades down around his broad, tattooed shoulders, or lifting something heavy so his arm muscles bulge and flex. He's only become more attractive with age, the fucker. Even the neighbor ladies notice him when he's working in the front yard, women half his age blushing and giggling when he greets them in terribly-accented broken French as they pass by the little blue farmhouse on their way to the town center.

One evening after Silver has been in his home for more than two months, it finally dawns on Flint that Silver is, for his own reasons, waiting on Flint to make the first obvious move. He doesn't know how it took him so long to realize, but he resolves to do something definitive about it, posthaste.

Silver is in the kitchen as the sun sets, his hair tied back at his nape, a knife in hand. He's cutting vegetables, and singing as he does, because Silver has an irritating and endearing habit of singing while he works. “Will you swim through the briny sea for me, roll along the ocean’s floor?” he sings as Flint stands near the table, watching. “I'll be your treasure...I'm waiting for you,” he sings under his breath, then digresses to humming the tune.

Flint waits until he's put the knife down, just to be sure Silver won't slip up and cut himself, then comes up behind him and slides his arms around his waist. “Tonight,” he rumbles in his ear, nosing into his hair where it's tied.

Silver stands up a bit straighter, a shiver going through his body. “Right now?” he asks, and the note of excitement in his voice makes him sound so much younger than his fifty-odd years.

“No, not right now,” Flint says with a laugh, one hand traveling up under Silver’s shirt (they finally went into town to buy him some new clothes two weeks into his stay) to feel the soft warmth of his stomach, the hard muscles of his chest, the prickling of sparse silver hairs that lead down to a thicker trail that disappears into his trousers.

“Then you'd best get your hand out of my shirt before I bend over your kitchen table and give up all pretense,” Silver says, his voice strained. 

Flint impulsively pinches one nipple, making Silver whine, then withdraws and leaves him to his cooking. He can feel the anticipation heavy in the air, and he likes it. He's always had a vivid imagination, especially in carnal matters, and hearing Silver talk that way makes him think Silver does, too.

Following a tense evening meal and a hurried cup of rum shared between the two of them, they retreat upstairs to Flint’s bedroom, the largest one in the farmhouse. Silver has been in the room before, to bring Flint tea in the mornings or to snoop around while Flint’s otherwise occupied, but never like this.

It has started raining outside, a warm summer thunderstorm that's common for the region. Flint goes around the room lighting more candles than is strictly necessary, wanting to be sure he can see Silver clearly the first time they do this.

Silver sits on Flint’s bed and begins methodically divesting himself of his clothing. By the time Flint joins him, he's down to just his breeches, apparently in some kind of hurry to be naked with Flint. He reaches out and yanks Flint’s shirt off him roughly, then grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him in close to kiss him.

Flint feels like he's been struck by lightning. He reaches out and pulls the tie from Silver’s hair, wanting to see it in all its lustrous glory. Rumbling in satisfaction at the sight, he pushes Silver down on to his back and kneels in the space where his left leg should be, reaching down to remove Silver’s breeches and finally, _finally_ lay hands on him.

As soon as he's got Flint’s hand on his cock, Silver gasps, then stiffens, cries out, and comes all over his stomach and Flint’s fingers. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he pants, trying to catch his breath.

“How old are you, again?” Flint teases him gently, raising his hand to his mouth to get a taste of Silver. He can't resist.

“Fifty _fucking_ eight, thank you, but I feel about eighteen just now,” Silver says, a blissful little smile on his face. He swallows hard when he sees Flint licking his fingers. “Give me five minutes, I can go again,” he assures him, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Five minutes, really?” Flint asks, wriggling out of his trousers and casting them aside. He puts a hand on Silver’s chest over a faded tattoo of a busty mermaid, feeling his heart hammering away. He feels impatient now that the moment is finally at hand (so to speak), but they've waited so long, he knows he can wait a little longer.

“Ten minutes,” Silver concedes, opening one eye to squint up at Flint. “It would help if you spoke some of that provincial French to me while I recover,” he says, his cheeks going a bit pink.

“I knew it,” Flint exclaims, leaning down to bite and kiss at Silver’s neck. “It arouses you when I speak French, doesn't it?” he asks in the language itself, then bites down and sucks hard enough to leave a mark.

Silver moans heatedly, his hips already starting to roll, seeking purchase against Flint’s body. “I don't know what the fuck you're saying to me, but please for the love of god don't stop,” he says, one hand coming up to grasp Flint’s thick thigh.

“Grapefruit. Armchair. Chicken,” Flint murmurs against Silver’s skin, deciding to have some fun with him.

“That last one, that was ‘chicken,’ I know that word. Quit fucking around,” Silver grits out, but when Flint looks down Silver is already hard again.

“Maybe it's for the best we didn't do this when we were younger if you're still this insatiable, you might've killed me back then,” Flint purrs, taking care to make the French words sound extraordinarily filthy coming out of his mouth.

“Yes, darling, that's it, well done,” Silver moans heatedly. All at once he grabs Flint with both arms and his one good leg, leveraging them over with surprising strength. He settles on his stomach between Flint’s legs and nuzzles his thigh, groaning and muttering something under his breath.

“What?” Flint asks in English, one hand coming to rest in Silver’s curls.

“I said, Alexander was only ever undone by Hephaestion’s thighs,” Silver purrs, sinking his teeth into the freckled flesh of Flint’s leg hard enough to leave tooth imprints. It makes Flint yell, his cock starting to leak in his breeches.

“So in this scenario, _you're_ Alexander?” he pants, looking down to watch as Silver tenderly kisses the tooth marks he's left, then unlaces Flint’s breeches and slowly draws him out.

“Shut the fuck up. Please,” Silver says, then takes Flint into his mouth like he's been waiting his whole life for the privilege. 

Flint groans and puts one arm over his eyes, panting, feeling his whole body flush with pleasure. Silver does this like he was born to do it, Flint thinks. He wonders idly if Silver’s ever done it before or if he's just a natural, then focuses on the feel of Silver’s clever tongue on him until he feels like his brain is going to leak out of his ears.

“Stop, stop,” he forces himself to say when he feels himself getting close, tugging on Silver’s hair.

“Why?” Silver asks when he pulls off, looking mildly panicked. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, shh. Of course not,” Flint reassures him. “I just don't want this to be over quite that soon. Some of us aren't fifty-eight anymore,” he jokes, stroking Silver’s hair fondly.

Silver gets his one knee under him and braces himself on his hands. “How do you want me?” he asks, his lips shining and red. He looks so young for a moment, despite his years.

Flint considers the options. “Lie on your side,” he says, and Silver is quick to negotiate himself into the position. Flint removes his breeches the rest of the way and curls behind Silver, and is not as surprised as he thinks he should be when Silver immediately presses back against him, eager. “I ought to get you ready first, this isn't as easy as--”

“I've done this before,” Silver interrupts impatiently. “I know how it works. What do you think I was doing in my room this afternoon for so long, hm? I had a feeling tonight might be the night. I'm ready,” he says in a rush.

“You...?” Flint asks, incredulous. He groans and buries his face in Silver’s hair, then reaches down with one hand to guide himself as he pushes slowly into Silver. “Fucking Christ,” he grits out, pushing Silver’s hair aside so he can bite into the compass rose tattooed on his shoulder.

“Ahh, please,” Silver whimpers, pressing back against Flint, clearly impatient with how slowly things are proceeding.

Flint knows he shouldn't have expected anything different, not from Silver. He grabs Silver’s hip in one hand and tangles the other in his hair, yanking his head back and making him moan. “You like when I'm rough with you, mm?” he purrs, driving his hips forward almost punishingly and sinking deep in Silver. Lightning flashes outside, and thunder rumbles in the distance.

“Yes, oh, fuck me,” Silver pants, starting to tremble all over as Flint fucks into him. “Used to get hard when you'd yell at me,” he says breathlessly, grinning so fiercely Flint can see his gold tooth. “Sometimes after we'd argue I'd go and touch myself, just thinking about you.” 

“You're depraved,” Flint says, delighted. He uses his hold on Silver to push and pull him, bending him to his will. Silver loves it, visibly and vocally, and Flint finds this just as arousing as the feeling of Silver hot and tight around him.

Soon Silver is practically falling to pieces under Flint’s touch. He begs for release, keeping his hands off himself because he somehow just _knows_ that Flint wouldn't let him touch himself anyway. “Please, I can't, I need, James, _fuck_ ,” Silver babbles, reaching back with one arm to grab desperately at Flint’s hair.

“You're so good, look at you,” Flint marvels breathlessly. “That's it, you can, I know you can,” he urges Silver, pressing in close and fucking him in short, hard thrusts. He can feel his own orgasm building at the base of his spine but he holds back, wanting Silver to come first. “Come for me,” he growls in his ear.

Silver shouts so loud Flint would swear the windows rattle, then comes on himself and the bedsheets without either of them laying so much as a finger on his cock. At the sight of him Flint can't hold back anymore. He pushes Silver over on to his stomach and lies on top of him, fucking into him once, twice more before coming with a heady groan that gets lost in Silver’s sweaty, wild hair.

In the aftermath they lie still, a sticky, sated tangle of limbs and hair and bedclothes. The thunderstorm has since concluded, and all Flint can hear is their combined harsh breathing and the faint noise of the cicadas outside.

Eventually, reluctantly, Flint pulls free from Silver and rolls on to his back, grunting at the soreness in his muscles. He doesn't usually exert himself quite that much at the end of a long day, and he feels it. “You've done it now, I'm going to want that all the time and I don't know if my poor old body can take it,” he jokes, laughing.

Silver laughs with him, rolling over on to his back next to him and turning his head to regard Flint. “You fuck like a man half your age,” he tells him in a sultry tone, reaching over to affectionately brush Flint’s snowy hair out of his eyes.

“Stay in my bed tonight,” Flint says impulsively, grabbing a corner of the bedsheet and wiping Silver’s stomach off, resolving not to get distracted by his sinewy muscles and abundant tattoos. He isn't sure he's capable of going two rounds in a night anymore, but part of him would very much like to try, given just how good Silver looks in his bed.

Silver looks at him, considering his offer carefully, then nods. “I will, thank you. This bed is much nicer than mine anyway,” he says, seeming to stretch in all directions at once before settling down. He looks shattered, the release of all that built-up tension apparently having exhausted him.

Flint throws an arm over Silver and yawns, meaning to say something, to touch him more, but sleep takes them both before he can. 

The next thing he knows, Flint is awake in the middle of the night, with the curious sound of someone cursing and making pained noises next to him in bed. It takes him a moment to come to his senses, and then he realizes Silver is sitting up, body strung tight with pain, grasping at what remains of his left leg with both hands. 

“What's wrong, John?” he asks, sitting up next to him and squinting at him in the darkness. All the candles have guttered out and he can just barely see Silver in the moonlight.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. It's my stupid fucking leg, it aches sometimes, especially at night,” Silver says through gritted teeth. “Sometimes if I hold on to it and dig my fingers in, hard, that helps,” he explains.

“May I?” Flint asks, and at Silver’s wary nod he reaches out to massage the stump of his leg, digging his fingers in hard like Silver said to.

Silver slowly relaxes, the pained expression eventually fading from his face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, putting his hand on Flint’s and lying back.

Flint settles next to him, fingers still idly stroking the sensitive scar tissue of Silver’s partial leg. “What happened to you?” he asks as gently as possible. “You don't have to answer, but if you do, please tell me the truth.”

Silver sighs, his eyes meeting Flint’s in the pre-dawn gloom. “There was an accident on one of the first ships I crewed for after Madi and I wed. A cannonball from an enemy ship took out part of the hull, and that part of the hull exploded right into my bad leg,” he says. “I was so frightened of letting them take any more than I'd already lost, I wouldn't let the doctor near me for two days. I was wild, mad with pain and terror and fever. Finally they knocked me out and when I came round, days later, they told me this was as much as the doctor could save.” He sighs, looking down his naked body at the small part of his leg that remains. “If I hadn't been so scared, I might still have my knee, at least,” he says ruefully. “Madi was furious when I came home. Relieved to see me alive of course, but furious with me for putting myself in harm’s way yet again. She said it was like I was actively trying to get myself killed.”

“I'm sorry, for everything,” Flint says, meeting Silver’s gaze. He moves his hand from Silver’s leg to his face, gently stroking the wicked, curving scar that passes through his left eyebrow, narrowly missing his eye. “And here?” he asks, suddenly needing to know the stories of all the scars Silver has accumulated since last they knew each other.

“Another bar brawl. Not the one where I lost the tooth, mind. A man with too much confidence in his heart and too much drink in his blood called me a...well, I won't repeat what he said. But we exchanged words, and then he came at me with a broken bottle and managed to get me there before I could react.” He clears his throat. “I broke his jaw. The whole side of his face, actually, across my one remaining knee.”

“He deserved it,” Flint says with conviction. “Just how many bar brawls have you gotten into, anyway?” he asks, smoothing his thumb over Silver’s cheekbone.

“Too many,” Silver says, his gaze gone soft and faraway, like he's remembering things he doesn't wish to speak of out loud.

Flint feels sadness for him, for this villain Silver had found himself becoming despite his best intentions. “That's all behind you now. Let's go back to sleep, we do have things to do tomorrow,” he says.

Silver curls up on his side behind Flint, wrapping one well-muscled arm around his waist and hauling him back until their hips are pressed snugly together. “Goodnight,” he mumbles into his shoulder, and is snoring before Flint can answer.

 

\---

 

Flint wakes late the next morning and is surprised to find himself alone. He reluctantly gets out of bed and puts on just enough clothing to be decent (a long white shirt with sleeves so voluminous he practically trips on them), then goes to find Silver.

He peeks into the guest bedroom. Empty. He can't hear anyone moving around downstairs, either. He starts feeling slightly panicked, wondering if Silver up and left him at dawn, gone as quickly and mysteriously as he'd arrived in the first place. For lack of anywhere better to look, he pokes his head into the bathroom and is relieved to see Silver reclining in the tub, his one foot propped up and his arms braced on the sides of the tub. He feels significantly less relieved when he realizes Silver’s got a book in his hands. Flint’s copy of the Canterbury Tales, as it happens.

“What are you doing?” Flint asks, stepping further into the bathroom and regarding Silver, hands on his hips.

“Reading. And also bathing, while simultaneously soaking my sore muscles after the spectacular fucking we got up to last night,” Silver says, turning his head to glance at Flint. He has his hair tied up in a knot at the back of his head, and there are purplish love bites all over his neck and one shoulder. Flint’s handiwork. Seeing Silver like that makes him feel a spike of arousal, despite his annoyance.

“You can't have a book in the bath,” Flint says testily, his eyes narrowing as he approaches the bathtub.

“Oh, really? Because here's the bath, and here's the book, and here I am in the bath with the book,” Silver says, shooting Flint a winning smile. Evidently getting properly fucked makes him cheeky.

“Don't be a shit, you know what I mean. You can't read while in the bath, you might drop the book in the water and ruin it. Besides, the steam isn't good for it, it'll make the pages warp and the ink run,” Flint says. He holds his hand out toward Silver, waiting.

Silver treats him to a full-body eye roll and reluctantly hands the book over. “I was just getting to the good part! I think. Honestly, I don't understand what the fuck that book is on about, anyway.”

“Find some other way to entertain yourself. And hurry it along, we've got things to do,” Flint says, then leaves the room to get fully dressed and make tea while Silver luxuriates in the bath. He shakes off the undeniable lust he felt at seeing Silver naked and reveling in the events of the previous night, reminding himself that they'll have plenty of time for more later and he does still have a farm to run.

Eventually Silver makes his way downstairs, where Flint is already sitting at the kitchen table, sipping his tea. A cup waits for Silver, strong and black and bitter, just the way he likes it.

Silver sits down gingerly with a happy little sigh, grinning at Flint and taking a sip of his tea. “I found another way to entertain myself,” he informs him. He's still got his hair up, and his white shirt is clinging to his skin where it's still damp from his bath. If he goes out that way, Flint thinks the neighbor ladies might faint at the sight of him.

“Oh? How?” Flint asks, with the distinct sense that he's being set up for some kind of punchline. He walks right into it anyway, willingly.

“Same way I did the first time you drew a bath for me here,” Silver says, and delicately sips his repulsive tea before continuing. “I touched myself.”

“You did what?” Flint asks, and he doesn't spit out his tea but it's a near thing.

“You remember, that first day Antoinette came over with baby Marie and you thought I had heat stroke. What really happened is, hearing you speak French got my blood up, and, well, when the mood strikes...” Silver shrugs.

“You have a remarkably filthy mind, and a voracious sexual appetite to go with it,” Flint says, impressed. He's not sure he'll be entirely able to keep up with Silver, but oh, will it be fun to try.

“Cheers to that,” Silver agrees. He runs a finger along the fragile edge of his teacup, not looking at Flint. “I was beginning to worry that you'd changed your mind and you weren't going to want to...with me,” he says, glancing up at him briefly. “I was making it incredibly obvious how much I want you, or so I thought.”

“It actually took me until yesterday to realize you were waiting for me to, ah, initiate. Very gentlemanly of you to wait, of course, but it did take me by surprise,” Flint says honestly, studying Silver.

“I would wait for you if it took forever, you know that. Of course, I want you and have wanted you, for a long time, but I didn't think...I wasn't sure if, because, you know,” he says, gesturing vaguely around them. For once he seems at a loss for words.

Flint understands anyway. He puts his hand over Silver’s, looking into his eyes. “It’s all right,” he says quietly. “You have nothing to worry about, not with me. I know staying here has to be a little challenging for you, what with the vestiges of my life with Thomas still so very present. I'm not going to apologize for that, either. He and I were together for many happy years, of course his presence is going to linger. I wouldn't want it not to. But I know who you are, and who you're not, and I do love you. If you're amenable, I'd...I’d like for you to perhaps consider staying here permanently.”

“If I'm amenable?” Silver repeats, smiling incredulously. “I tracked you down. I found you here in the middle of swampy French nowhere. I traveled for weeks on end just to turn up on your doorstep in the middle of the night. I bared my soul to you in a way I didn't think I'd ever get the chance to. I preened and strutted around in front of you for months trying to make you see how badly I want you, and your touch. Of course I'm amenable, don't be fucking stupid,” he says, sitting back and shaking his head at Flint, that smile still on his face.

“You really don't want to go back to the sea, then? You don't miss it?” Flint asks, tracing the wood grain of the table with his fingernail. It's early yet but the thick, humid air already feels stifling to him.

“I don't miss it. I thought I did, and I spent a regrettable number of years trying to make peace with that, while simultaneously wrecking my body and my marriage,” Silver says, looking down into his tea before looking up at Flint. “But I understand now what I was truly missing.” He leans across the table and gives Flint a sweet kiss, gentler than any they've shared thus far. It has the curious effect of making Flint feel weak in the knees.

Flint nods slowly when Silver pulls back. “Yes. Well, good,” he says, trying not to look too obviously relieved that Silver has so readily agreed to give up that life for this much simpler, much safer one. “I've missed you, too.”

Silver smiles again at that. He pushes himself up from the table and steadies himself on his crutch. “Shall we go, before it gets too fucking hot to be outdoors?” he asks.

Silver and Flint leave the little blue farmhouse together in the bright morning sun, walking into town side by side and discussing what they ought to do now that Silver is staying long-term. Flint finds himself feeling happy and at peace, Silver’s hand resting on his shoulder as they walk, not out of necessity but out of affection.

He looks fondly over at Silver as he boisterously greets their neighbors in his awful French, thinking how good it is that Long John Silver has been unmade at last.


End file.
